Jennie on Literature

Reading and writing have been a passion of mine for almost the whole of my life. My mother taught me to read when I was two years old, whereupon I became voracious in my appetite for books, persuading the local library to give me my own card and constantly harrassing relatives to buy novels and short story collections for me. I believe that the ability to read is one of the greatest gifts that can be given to anybody, because it is a gift of power and independence, a valuable tool in taking control of one's own life. When one can read, so much information becomes available that it would take more than a human lifetime to process it all. It is a great frustration to me that I shall never be able to read everything, yet this is matched by my delight in the knowledge that there will always be something else wonderful out there (if only I can find it amid all the shite). Even when certain types of literature are suppressed by the state (most people in the UK remain unaware of their government's long history of banning books, an approach it now seeks to extend to the internet) there is always information available underground, passed over discreetly at the back of market stalls, pamphleted at demonstrations, and the like. Reading is not only about books - it is about the net, newspapers, leaflets, brochures, legal documentation, subtitles (often markedly different from dialogue they translate), street signs, billboards, notes passed in class, graffiti, ancient manuscripts, t-shirts and cornflake packets. The sad thing is that this world of information is denied not only to the illiterate, but also to those with poor literacy skills, a group increasing in number in the English-speaking nations, the casualties of a failing education system and of governments prepared to put up with reduced economic performance in exchange for having citizens who don't think too much. True literacy is not only about being able to make sense of letters and recognise written words, it's about being able to comprehend the subtle meanings of complex sentences. When we look, we must also strive to see. I believe that literate people owe it to the rest of the world to try and spread their skills, teaching others, giving them the skills necessary to analyse language for themselves. Not only writers have this duty - it belongs to every parent, employer, and friend. It is second only to our duty to educate ourselves.

I live in the city with the second most bookshops in the world (after Toronto), a country which, during the early rennaissance of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, led the world in the production of literature. Sadly, the average Scot now reads only six books a year. Some people further lament the decline in sales of newspapers, but I cannot say I have as much sympathy there - I myself gave up reading the newspapers available in the UK after they stopped hiring copyeditors, at which point they simply became too frustrating. Spellchecking programs do not do the same job. I really think this is a situation where the government should intervene and require publications with high distribution to meet certain basic levels so far as spelling and grammar are concerned, because it is from these publications that most people acquire their adult reading and writing skills. Anyway, I do still read Le Monde, Die Welt, The Moscow Times, The Hindustan Times and, in translation, Kyodo News, as well as occasional bits of the US press. These seem to give me a decent overview of most world news, and have higher literary standards than their UK counterparts.

Print publications have, of course, declined in part because of the success of the internet with its minimal turn-around time. It took me a few years of using the web to realise that I had utterly lost interest in most magazines, as information was always available more quickly online, usually at least as well written, and I no longer needed a paper source of pictures for my collages; there really wasn't anything else to hold me. The likes of Empire and Bizarre had by then lost most of their interesting content anyway, filling space with an increasing quantity of bland soft porn. There are exceptions. I retain my subscription to New Scientist, as it not only represents an excellent weekly summary of cutting edge science but is much better written than most arts-centered publications. My partner Donald, a former student of physics and astronomy, believes this is because a high proportion of scientists are dyslexic, and educated dyslexic people tend to be very careful to check through their work.

Despite this aversion, I still rely on print publications to publish a lot of my work, so I shouldn't be too mean. There are good ones out there, they're just hard to track down. I also edit one, TBD, which publishes original science fiction and fantasy short stories as well as news, reviews and articles related to the genre. It's part of my effort to get involved with new writers and encourage them to develop their work. I published my first piece of non-fiction at the age of fifteen and my first short story a year later. My first published novel, The Orpheus Industry, is available here. It's not the first one I've written - I would recommend that new authors get some practice in first before deciding their work is ready to face the world. Of course, that takes a lot of effort, but writing, when one is serious about it, is a job; one shouldn't enter into it expecting an easy ride.

"Literature is a business to me... My sole desire in writing is to make a reasonable living." wrote Robert E Howard, author of the famous Conan stories. "I may cling to many illusions, but I am not ridden by the illusion that I have anything wonderful or magical to say, or that it would amount to anything particularly if I did say it. I have no quarrel with art-for-art's-sakers. On the contrary, I admire their work. But my pet delusions tend in other directions."

I have a lot of sympathy with Howard's position. He was struggling to provide for his family, as I am; and I don't have a lot of other options so far as work is concerned, considering my illness and my partner's intermittent need for care. It's all very well for people to get high and mighty about how one shouldn't write unless one can produce art; many of us can't afford to take that attitude. Besides, I believe that literature should strive to serve a greater purpose than the intellectual satisfaction of an elite. It is vital that any society produce accessible, engaging literature, so that everybody can find some satisfaction in reading. Many children become disillusioned about reading because the books presented to them at school seem stilted and remote, out of touch with the world they know. Though I'm all for broadening horizons, I consider it to be of far greater immediate importance to give these children a genuine interest in exploring literature for themselves. They should be shown that reading can be exciting and fun.

Almost every writer has bills to pay and a household to maintain; there isn't always a day job to not give up; and I don't see anything wrong with producing lighter work as the main way of making a living. If one desires to produce great art, it can be done alongside this. I would argue that, in any event, the greatest art is that which can provide some measure of satisfaction to everyone encountering it; and I don't think writers learn the skills necessary to produce that if they shy away from the mass market. Though many people end up in this profession because they prefer a reclusive lifestyle, it is a writer's job to engage with humanity; to acknowledge its imperfections, but not to judge the bulk of it incapable of sensitivity or undeserving of entertainment.

The other side of this, of course, is that writing can be seen as a terribly pretentious occupation. I dread those moments at parties when strangers ask "And what do you do?", because I know that, more often than not, they're going to be followed by sneers, by an assumption that I'm lying or that I'm showing off. I tend to mention my job to new people as a hasty aside, promptly changing the subject; yet I long to bitch about certain of my editors as surely as any call centre worker likes to bitch about hir supervisor, and I worry that I bore the few patient friends who end up bearing the brunt of that. It's worse, of course, if I admit that I do have some artistic ambitions; I am constantly striving to develop and improve my work, and to expand my range. Regarding this, I have looked into creative writing courses and that sort of thing, but have come to the conclusion that few of them have anything useful to teach once one has got beyond the basics. The single best way to learn how to write (whether for publication or simply for one's own pleasure) is to read. Read widely; take recommendations from friends; and make an effort, every now and again, to approach a book you expect to hate. I'll admit that, for me, this is as much a compulsion as a deliberate strategy. Sitting in waiting rooms with nothing to do, I'll read and re-read the ingredients lists on the sides of chocolate bar wrappers; by the age of twelve, I knew how to write 'monosodium glutamate' in eight languages.

Listed below are a few books and short stories I'd personally recommend; I make no claims to them all being great literature, but they all made an impression on me, so, if you think you might enjoy the same sort of thing, check them out.

Some Favourite Books:

• The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, James Hogg. This is probably my favourite book of all time, written by a shepherd who taught himself to read; it offers a profound insight into Scottish religious culture, and is at once horrifying and delightful, the darkly comic tale of a man who believes himself justified in doing anything (in God's name, of course) because he knows he has already been Saved. Its three person split narrative is remarkable for its time and shows the depth of Hogg's perception; he is kind to nobody, yet somehow every one of his characters draws a degree of sympathy from the reader.
• The Collector, John Fowler. Again featuring a split person narrative and a human presentation of a man who would probably be deemed a psychopath, this is a sympathetic and compelling novel which I can read again and again. Its two characters - abductor and abductee - are explored in fascinating detail as they play out what is essentially a comedy of manners against the darker background of their surreal relationship.
• High Rise and The Atrocity Exhibition, JG Ballard. The latter of these is one of Ballard's experimental works, with a multilinear narrative and a structure which depends on pictures as well as text. It's a book to read many times, to explore, with more ideas than could be fitted into traditional prose. By contrast, the former is old-fashioned in structure, and uses aspects of predictability to develop its comedy. It is a classic piece of speculative fiction, examining the social disintegration occurring in an ultra-modern tower block increasingly distant from the rest of the world and using this to comment on human social interaction and civilisation in general. I've all but abandoned Ballard's later work since reading the painful unwitting self-parody which was Super-Cannes, an illustration of all the worst things which can happen when a brilliant genre writer attempts to create a Proper Novel; but I expect I shall always enjoy his early experimental work.
• The Chrysalids, John Wyndham. I've always adored Wyndham's work, but this is my favourite, a novel in which he seems to condense all of his talents and reach a little further. Set in a post-apocalyptic religious community where mutations are feared and eliminated wherever possible, it makes an interesting counterpart to The Midwich Cuckoos (as if told from the children's perspective) and provides an intriguing study of fascism, cleverly seducing the reader into hating it and sympathising with it at the same time.
• The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco. A lot of people are put off Eco's work by the density of his prose; it can be hard going (in the manner of Peake or Scott), but effort and patience are richly rewarded. This tale of medieval monks investigating a murder is steeped in fascinating historical detail; it is emotionally evocative whilst remaining full of wit and humour; and it contains what is, to my mind, the best sex scene ever written (you'll see what I mean if you try it). It is rare to find such an intelligent book anywhere.
• Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Laclos. I always prefer to read books in the original language where possible; though there have been some superb translations of Laclos' seminal work, nothing quite matches the vicious beauty of his own prose. Presented as a series of letters between conspirators and friends, it is deeply passionate while not a word is wasted in wit.
• The Strange Case of Charles Dexter Ward, HP Lovecraft. Probably the most tightly structured of any of Lovecraft's works, this is an elegant short novel which displays the full imaginative beauty of the author's writing whilst avoiding his usual excessive verbosity. Set in New England, of course, it tells of dark magic and a family curse; the story is a classic one, but the presentation is fresh and surprisingly satisfying.
• The Count of Eleven, Ramsey Campbell. Most of Ramsey's other work just looks like practice for this one; he has always demonstrated a remarkable talent, but here all of his usual failings are absent, and he achieves something truly remarkable. On the face of it, it's a simple story of a man going mad in an ordinary quiet English town, but the prose is convincing, the ordinary characters impressively vivid, the sense of loss and inevitability quite devastating.

You can see some more of my book reviews archived in Io's science fiction and fantasy book listing here.

Some Favourite Short Stories:

• Petra, Greg Bear. I first came across this in a cyberpunk anthology where it really stood out, with its medieval religious architecture and medieval religious structure. Its imagery is strikingly vivid, and the strong story never suffers from the author's experimentation with form. This is the kind of work which any developing genre must depend on to establish both its literary credentials and the pleasures which it can offer to readers. Naturally, it has become all the more potent for me as my illness has progressed and I have observed myself as a child of stone and flesh.
• Flowers for Algernon, Daniel Keyes. This also exists as a novel, but I think that it is sufficient in its shorter form, and perhaps more biting because of that. It is one of the very few short stories ever to have made me cry. Brilliantly written and quite startlingly perceptive, it recounts the tale of a man who experiences life as a mentally retarded person, as an average person, and as a genius. To say much more would be to ruin the story, so suffice to say that this is a piece which should change the way the reader looks at other human beings forever.
• Orange is for Anguish, Blue is for Insanity, David Morrell. An elegant little tale of personal obsession, of art and the analysis of art, with something much more powerful lurking in the background.
• The Blue Gallery, Douglas Dunn. Another story about art, this time thoroughly surreal; extremely short and pared down, unexpectedly powerful; the sort of piece which will seem insignificant until it returns, time and again, to haunt the reader's dreams.
• The Watchful Poker Chip of H Matisse, Ray Bradbury. I like a lot of Ray Bradbury's short stories, but this is my favourite, being at once a savage critique of post-modernism and a playful exploration of the genre stretched to its limits, as well as a fascinating study of social manipulation.
• Survival, John Wyndham. In its way, this is one of Wyndham's crudest stories; its presence among my favourites is a testament to the raw power with which it is invested. I was about seven when I first read it and it had a massive emotional impact on me. Its tale of marooned travellers forced to resort to cannibalism is age old, but its examination of character is compelling.
• The Girl with the Hungry Eyes, Fritz Leiber. The beautifully photographed tale of a photographer and his mysterious model, with everything somehow coming across in grainy black and white despite its examination of the technicolour world of advertising. Leiber's deft handling of his unreliable narrator and the powerful final scene which still allows but a glimpse of the underlying horror contribute to something truly unusual which its author has never equalled.
• The Whisperer in Darkness, HP Lovecraft. One of its author's most soundly constructed short stories, this explores its traditional form with exquisite glee, utilising its predictable elements to develop a mounting sense of dread inevitability. Something mysterious is afoot in the hills, but this time those horrors which man was not meant to be know seem much closer to home, and our hero's increasing danger is the source of much delicious black humour.
• Mimsy were the Borogroves, Lewis Padgett. A potent and often sorrowful investigation into the difference in thought patterns between adults and children; between the sane and those that we call mad; and of how a gap can develop there which sometimes even love is unable to bridge. Richly intelligent and strikingly different, this offers perhaps the best analysis yet of Lewis Carrol's evocative work, and of his much pondered relationships with children, yet it does so within the framework of a compelling piece of fiction.
• The Screwfly Solution, Raccoona Sheldon. This tale of a world in which men gradually develop a compulsion to murder women is often discussed in the context of feminist literature, but personally I think it unfair that such a rich story should be so reduced. People talk about its 'alternative truths' as if they are mutually exclusive. Much of its appeal lies in its directness, its non-judgemental simplicity, though it is far from being unemotional as a result. It is a fine reminder of human fragility, and of how much and how little our differences matter.

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Last updated 28th December, 2005